I know what this looks like. Good Lord, that daffy broad went and nuked her site again. In the most literal sense – past posts have been removed, color scheme has changed, site identification/title has been deemed irrelevant, custom header image has been revised – you would be right… but this time around is different, I assure you; so please, let me try to explain.
Have you ever heard anyone say, Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it? It’s an old proverb that’s tossed around quite a lot; and I’d never really understood it.
In fact, my gut reaction to hearing such “nonsense” had always been, Why in the holy hell would I not want to receive what I’ve wished for?
I was working under the questionable assumption that wishes were the equalivent of best intentions. I.e. I wish for happiness, health, comfort, etc. – and that having them granted was an inherently good thing.
But then, about a year ago, I heard an Anonymous gentleman take this proverb one step further. He said, “Be careful what you pray for, because you just might get it… and not always in the way you had hoped.”
Honestly? My mind was blown. All of a sudden, an old saw that I considered to be downright stupid, made total and complete sense.
At the time, my brother’s death was still a raw, gaping, open wound. (Still is, if I’m being completely forthright.) And as soon as I heard that gentleman say what he did, I thought, Wow. We asked for my brother’s pain and suffering to end. He’s no longer in pain. He’s no longer suffering. But, the boy is dead.
All of the prayers that had been sent into the universe on my younger brother’s behalf had been answered. We just never considered the fact that death was a viable solution. (I mean, how much more of a final end to anything is there?)
I was stricken with renewed grief, unbearable guilt, and paralyzing fear.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but hearing that Anonymous gentleman speak would have a paralyzing effect on my already delicate inability to make decisions.
Subconsciously, I began to worry that I could ask for the right thing at the wrong time (say when the universe was ovulating, and therefore, terribly moody), and end up with a catastrophic answer to a well-intentioned inquiry.
I stopped praying. I stopped analyzing. I stopped asking. I got stuck.
I found my way back to the path of least resistance. I started pointing fingers, and assigning blame.
Instead of trying to move forward, I fell back into the past. Old fears and bygone hurts resurfaced; and before I knew it, they had taken over my already limited world view.
In response to the fear of being without a pay check (even though we’re doing okay), I took the first employment offer that came my way. An offer that wasn’t in my field. An offer I didn’t really want. But, I threw myself into it because that’s all I’d been able to do.
My life – since hearing that Anonymous gentleman speak (and I say that without assignment of blame) – had once again become an exercise in survival, as opposed to one being lived.
Mitchell saw it. My friends saw it. They all warned me that I was spiraling out, and dangerously close to losing my sh*t… because all they were reading in my writing was pain, despair, loneliness, and grief.
I had foolishly forgotten that life is so much more than the sum of our fears… and did not see that my addictions were actively working to reclaim their tyrannous throne.
Thankfully, the universe stepped in when I needed her most; and not in a catastrophic way.
On Friday evening, my mother-in-law (who never calls me, because I don’t ever pick up) called… and in a moment of rare bravery, I answered the phone.
We didn’t speak for long, but we used those brief moments wisely. We shared our concerns about my husband’s health, and my own.
She offered a way out from under the job that was causing my crippling anxiety, and the consequent breakdown in sanity. My husband and I – albeit, hesitantly – decided to take it.
With the self-imposed weight of the world off my shoulders, I started to examine other parts of my life that were causing undue stress, and the way I was approaching this blog – like a menacing project – was one of those parts.
Project: An individual or collaborative enterprise that is carefully planned and designed to achieve a particular aim.Oxford Dictionary
I started reading the posts, and realized that I was writing for all the wrong reasons.
When you work in Exceptional (Special) Education, you learn that children stand apart from their diagnoses: Down’s Syndrome, Autism, ADHD, etc.
These various afflictions are but a small part of a much larger whole. Diagnoses are labels. Labels imply limits. And if my kids have taught me anything, it’s that individuals are limitless.
I needed not to start over, but to shift my perception.
Yes, I am an alcoholic and an addict. Yes, I am a Borderline. Yes, I am unemployed. Yes, I sometimes fail to meet expectations (mine, and those of others). However, these things do not define the whole of who I am.
I am not a writer because of these things, but in spite of them.
So I decided to remove the subtitle – formerly The Absurd Misadventures of a Borderline – because I felt it imposed limits on who I am, and what I sensed it was appropriate to write about.
I need for this blog to reflect all of me, instead of only a part – a part that is often dark and full of miserable despondency. The part that assigns blame, instead of taking self-accountability.
I’m not saying that the malicious harpy within won’t pound away on the keys of my laptop from time to time (She calls this “typing with purpose.” Up in the Air, anyone?), nor that she won’t show up in my posts uninvited. I’m simply saying that she’s not the only one allowed at the helm of this crazy ship.
Stephen King once said, “The glory of a good tale is that it is limitless and fluid…” And to that I say, Amen, Brother!
I first started writing because in doing so I often surprised myself. I found hidden answers to internal questions. I made bizarre, seemingly random connections from point A to point Z… and could follow that itinerant road map into the wilds of imagination.
Do I sometimes write to deal with anger? Absolutely.
Is anger my only emotion? Am I nothing more than a rambling, lunatic hostage to my mental afflictions? Absolutely not.
I am the whole sum of a myriad of pieces. Some are shattered, and have dangerously sharp edges; but others are silky smooth, and covered in glitter and gold… and I’d like for you, Dear Reader, to see them all.
When Mitchell saw what I had done to the blog, he looked at me, mouth agape, and said, “Again? Seriously? I give up.” But he won’t. He will cheer for me, as he always has. So I beg of you… grab a pom-pom, and shout loudly from the sidelines. Don’t give up on me yet.